by Julie Leto
He leaned in and, burying his face in her tousled hair, took a deep breath. When he pulled back, he felt a scrape across the bridge of his nose. Brushing aside her burnished locks, he found that a gold chain twisted the tight strands at the nape of her neck.
“What’s this?” he asked, tugging on the necklace.
She attempted to turn toward him as he worked to untangle the chain. “Oh, it’s a good-luck charm.”
He chuckled, thinking the talisman had clearly done a brilliant job for both of them.
Working as nimbly as he could, he eased the hair from the chain, twisting and tugging until the charm came free. Only once the torn triangle fell across his fingertips did he realize what Alexa wore.
Sarina’s necklace.
The one given to her by their father.
The one she’d lost on the night of her disappearance.
Seven
The chain snapped, abrading the skin on the back of Alexa’s neck. Her hand flew to press against the pain, and when she removed her fingers, a light streak of blood slashed across her skin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“Where did you get this?”
Damon’s naked body gleamed with sweat even as he stood in an attack position. Legs balanced, knees slightly bent, arms at the ready, one hand clutching the delicate charm Jacob had given her as if his decision to murder her or not depended entirely on her reply. She pressed her lips tightly together and reminded herself to breathe. She wasn’t going to let some ghost on the edge of insanity intimidate her, no matter what they’d just done or how delicious the experience had been.
“You need to calm down,” she insisted.
He lunged forward, and with a squeal, Alexa tumbled off the chaise and remained out of his reach. Damon was easily twice her size and clearly in a rage. She couldn’t protect herself from a prone position. If he caught her, she wouldn’t stand a chance, martial arts training or not.
His chest heaved with barely checked emotion, only the chaise between them—a strip of furniture he could make disappear just as easily as he’d conjured it.
“Tell me how you came to possess this charm, witch!”
Infuriated, she slammed to her feet. “You’d better watch your tone, mister. I took you out of that painting. I’m nearly positive I can find a way to put you back in.”
Damon leaped over the chaise, his hand reaching toward her. She effectively deflected his first move but wasn’t quick enough for the second. His hand tangled tightly in her hair, and if she moved, she knew it would hurt.
“Let go of me.”
“Tell me how you possess my sister’s necklace,” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“What? You’re insane!”
“That remains to be seen, but I know this charm. Sarina was wearing it the night she ran away, but I found this very broken piece only moments before Rogan’s curse locked me in the portrait.”
“That’s impossible,” she explained, her heart pounding. “Jacob gave me the necklace just this afternoon. He told me it would protect me.”
His eyes blazing, Damon moved his face closer to hers. “He lied.”
With a shove, he released her. Alexa’s knees hit the cold stone with a jolt, but she swallowed a painful gasp and instead concentrated on reaching her backpack. Inside, she had a gun. A flare gun, but a weapon nonetheless. She wasn’t sure the exploding cartridge could do any damage to a cursed phantom, even one with corporeal form, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try.
Damon clutched the necklace as he stalked around the landing like a caged predator. One by one, the accoutrements he’d added to the room faded out of sight. First the plush tapestries and velvet screens, then the table and wine, and finally, the chaise. Still naked and struggling with a shame she refused to feel, Alexa was completely exposed to his cruel gaze. Luckily, he no longer seemed interested in looking at her at all. His eyes remained locked on the charm in his palm.
The sconces and candles faded last, dousing them in shadows that deepened and darkened as the sky outside the far windows swirled with grays and blacks. An ominous rumbling rolled across the ocean, announcing the coming storm. Alexa took advantage of the darkness and dashed to her backpack, fished out the gun and turned to point the wide orange barrel at Damon.
But he was gone.
Down the stairs.
“This is the key,” he said triumphantly, mindless of his nudity and looking every inch as strong and powerful as he charged down the stairs as he had when robed in his Georgian-era clothes.
Alexa kicked into her trousers, sans undergarments, and punched into her blouse, fastening only one button before she flung her backpack over her shoulder and headed toward the stairs. A storm was coming, but she preferred to stare down Mother Nature in all her ugly glory rather than stay with a madman in the castle—her castle, she thought with a quiet growl—one minute longer. Staying close to the railing, she went down the stairs barefoot, grateful for the silence.
“This is where the magic originated,” he bellowed, spinning and stopping her dead when his ocean-storm eyes burrowed into hers as lightning flashed around them. “Instrument of my destiny?” he shouted. “Not today. Not ever again.”
Alexa’s legs shook, but she continued downward, the gun clutched tightly in her hand, her eyes darting alternately between Damon and the door. She’d never get past him. Not unless she fired. And she couldn’t justify shooting an unarmed man unless he lunged at her again. She’d have to find another way.
Lightning strobed, the bolts so intense, they brightened the inside of the castle so that the stones practically glowed with electricity, sparking off the tiny flakes of glass embedded in the walls. Thunder blasted immediately after, shaking Alexa straight through to her bones.
With his left hand clutched around the necklace, Damon grabbed the door handle with his right. With a mighty curse that rivaled the sounds of the squall outside, he pulled hard. The door flew open. Raising his fists triumphantly, he moved to step outside, free to unleash his bitter rage into Alexa’s very real and vulnerable world.
A second later, blue light crackled against the blackness outside. The castle shook from the boom that instantly followed. Instinctively, Alexa looked away, her eyes tightly shut, but the howl of pain that accompanied the thunder forced her to look. Damon flew across the slick floor, landing hard against the stone.
Rain shot into the grand hall like a million needle-tipped arrows, but Damon didn’t seem to care. He crawled on his knees until he was standing again, but before he got within even ten feet of the door, another burst of blue light invaded the hall, striking him directly.
Alexa screamed, but his agony made her reaction sound like a whimper. Electric fire burned into him. His body nearly floated upward as the strike continued, longer and longer than any ordinary force of nature. The whites of his eyes and his teeth glowed with cobalt fire.
She reacted on instinct, bolting down the remaining stairs. Sliding behind the massive door, she pushed with all her might. The heavy wood panel resisted for only a second, then flew into place, cutting off the searing pain that had flung Damon’s body backward until he slid across the wet stone and slammed into the bottom stairs.
Any mortal man would have been knocked out cold. Hell, any mortal man would be dead. But, apparently, neither the force of a hurricane nor the blackest magic could kill a phantom. But it caused him pain. Blinding, excruciating pain, judging by how he writhed on the floor.
Outside, the storm continued to rage. The mournful wind and the slam of tree limbs against the windows grew in volume until the cacophony nearly had Alexa running for cover. Instead, she reached for the door but didn’t touch the handle. What if she was struck, too? She might have cheated death once in the car accident, but chances were she couldn’t pull off such a miraculous escape from the Grim Reaper a second time. Instead, she headed toward the nearest window to the right of the hall.
Unfortunately, the
grimy stained glass wouldn’t open. She swung at it with her backpack, but the window repelled her strike, even with the water bottles and portable GPS tucked inside. From the hallway, she could hear Damon groaning. She didn’t care. She had to get out.
Reaching inside her pack, she retrieved the slicker she’d tucked inside and wrapped her fist, even while clutching the gun. With a shout that mixed determination, anticipated pain and fear, she punched at the glass. The pane held. Pain shot up her arm like hot fire, throbbing even as she staggered back.
She unwrapped her hand, stepped back a few feet from the window and fired. The cartridge hit the window with shattering force and exploded in a burst of red fire, but once the smoke cleared, she saw that the window remained intact.
Shaking, she reloaded. Aimed. But she had only one flare left. Did she really want to waste it on a window that would not break?
Instead, she bolted across the hall in search of another exit. She tried not to look at Damon, crumpled and naked at the bottom of the stairs, his arm tilted at an odd and painful angle. But the minute her mind registered his injury, she stopped.
Glancing back at the door, she approached Damon cautiously, the gun aimed at his chest.
“Why is this happening?”
He struggled to pull in a satisfactory breath. “I…don’t…”
He didn’t know. Big surprise. For an all-powerful phantom who could conjure an orgasm with a single stroke, he certainly wasn’t much help against the big, black magic encasing this castle. This island. Her island, damn it. She wanted it back. Now.
“Give me Sarina’s necklace,” she demanded.
His narrowed gaze burned with unchained resentment. “Never.”
She aimed the gun at his stomach.
“Give it to me or I’ll blow a hole in you that will last for eternity. Obviously, you can feel pain. I’m betting a flare gun exploding in your gut might be considerably worse than a lightning strike. You really want to try and heal from both? I won’t hurt the damned necklace. I don’t know anything about it except what my brother told me. I want out. I want to get the hell away from you.”
His breath ragged, Damon threw the charm and chain. It slid across the floor at her bare feet. Careful to keep her aim steady, she retrieved the charm.
“The magic. Will. Kill you.”
“I don’t believe you,” she spat. “The castle doesn’t want me. It wants you. This necklace protected me before, allowed me entrance. Now it’ll let me out.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know for sure.”
Alexa straightened to her full height. “I’ll take my chances.”
She darted toward the door again, her insides roiling with uncertainties she’d never show him. Not in a million years. All evidence pointed toward the charm providing her with the protection Jacob had promised. Her world hadn’t turned from fairy tale to nightmare until Damon had ripped the chain from her skin.
Tossing her backpack to the ground, Alexa pressed the charm against her chest and reached for the door. Though lightning and thunder continued their raucous dance outside in the darkness, none came shooting toward the castle. She clutched the latch and tugged hard.
Nothing happened.
She dropped the gun and tried again.
The latch was frozen in place.
She turned toward Damon, fury and fear fighting for dominance.
“Let me out!” she screamed.
But no one listened. No one but the phantom lying at the bottom of the stairs, filling the castle with his cruel laughter.
Eight
Damon knew he shouldn’t laugh at her, but to survive the excruciating agony of having his shoulder dislodged, he’d take what jollies he could. A thousand colors swirled in his eyes, each more sickeningly bright than the last. His skin burned. The act of breathing scorched the inside of his lungs.
Unfortunately, laughter hurt nearly as much as being thrown fifty feet by a wild bolt of lightning. He remained conscious by focusing on how Alexa had been so sure of herself, issuing threats as if her paper deed to this castle somehow gave her true ownership. She would learn. The rights and title to this structure belonged only to Lord Rogan and his evil magic.
He’d learned that the hard way himself, hadn’t he?
“Shut up,” Alexa ordered, the strange, wide-barreled gun aimed accurately at his midsection.
Perhaps she should shoot him. Maybe with a gaping hole in his belly, he could forget about the torturous separation of his shoulder from its socket.
“You’re trapped,” he coughed out. “This magic won’t release you. Not until it is ready.”
“When will that be?”
He shook his head, trying to remain conscious even as his vision blurred and his instinct for breathing faltered under the increased pain of his inhalations.
“Your shoulder is dislocated.”
He managed a nod. Damned horse-riding accident. Since being thrown by a skittish mare at age thirteen, he’d suffered this residual condition more than once. His brother Aiden had become incredibly adept at popping the joint back into place. But what could a wisp of a woman like Alexa do except shoot him and put him out of his misery?
She tossed her pack to the ground and threw the gun atop it. “Let me take your hand.”
“What?”
She held out both of her hands to him, palms up. “Let me take your hand. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“A moment ago, you threatened murder,” he reminded her, trying to squelch the agony in his voice. What he wouldn’t do right now for a shot of brandy. Hell, a whole bottle.
A flagon appeared beside him, and he wasted no time using his good hand and teeth to tear off the cork and imbibe a fortifying swig. The fire of the alcohol barely registered after the pain of the blue flame.
Her scowl faltered, revealing a flash of a grin. “I reserve the right to shoot you later if you piss me off again. Now, let me take your hand.”
With no other immediate options at his disposal, Damon complied. Perhaps he had acted too hastily in accusing her of somehow procuring Sarina’s necklace through evil means. He had been the last person to possess the chain and charm. While he was certain the jewelry had not come into Alexa’s ownership coincidentally, he’d had no real cause to accuse her of witchcraft. Not when he was the one who controlled the magic.
“Wait,” he said, just as she was lifting her foot against his chest to use as leverage in what he anticipated to be a horribly painful way of restoring his shoulder.
She nearly stumbled. “I said you can trust me.”
He nodded. “I know. I just…want to try. Shoulder, heal.”
Since she hadn’t released his hand, he could feel the tension in her touch. And the warmth. How could he have tossed her aside so callously? He truly was a cad of the first order.
But before he could offer recompense for his callous behavior, he had to be able to think straight. Channeling all of his concentration, he called to Rogan’s magic again.
“Anything?” she asked.
Pain still throbbed through his arm, accompanied by a growing numbness that would only lead to a deeper pain. “No. Apparently, I cannot use the magic to heal myself.”
“That’s what you get for yanking that chain off my neck and calling me a witch.”
“A justified consequence,” he admitted.
“Paybacks are hell. Now, brace yourself. This isn’t going to tickle.”
With her foot pressed against his chest, she used the counterbalance of her body weight to pull his shoulder fully forward. Surprisingly, the pain did not increase, though nausea flooded his insides and turned his stomach into a roiling mess. Little by little, she rotated his arm, pushing gently until the ball of the joint slipped back into the socket. The pain spiked, then subsided to a dull ache.
“Better?” she asked.
He managed a nod. He really was a complete idiot. “You didn’t have to help me,” he added.
“No kidding. You cer
tainly didn’t deserve it.”
He watched her gingerly touch her hand to the back of her neck and then glance at the broken chain in her hand.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“Yes.” Her eyes bored into his with venom, then quickly softened. “But it could have been worse. Are you truly certain this necklace belonged to your sister?”
She handed him back the gold chain and triangle charm and he stared at them cupped in his palm. Knowing that moving his injured arm immediately after repair wasn’t wise, he shifted the jewelry in his hand until it dangled from his fingers.
“Yes, I’m certain,” he assured her. “My father gave Sarina this necklace on her twelfth birthday. The triangle is but a corner of a handmade star wrought by a Gypsy artisan of some repute. She wore the star daily and I found the chain, broken, and the torn charm, near this very step on the night I became trapped by Rogan’s dark magic.”
Centuries couldn’t fill the well of loss that widened every time he thought of Sarina and his failure to rescue her from a man he’d once considered a friend. Damon swallowed thickly, knowing now was neither the time nor the place to indulge regrets and sorrow. He had to reassess his situation. Proceed with more caution. His rage had nearly destroyed him—and his tentative bond with Alexa, his only link to the outside world.
Though he couldn’t seem to lock back into his cold feelings toward her. Making love to her had affected him, and not only because he’d been without a woman’s touch for so long. Alexa presented a rare combination of woman—one with wealth and breeding, and yet fearless in both her passion and her self-defense. He’d never met anyone like her, and, use her though he must, he had no desire to hurt her intentionally.
He handed the necklace back to her, and after a second’s hesitation, she slipped it into the pocket of her slacks.
